Ragdoll
by lastrequest
Summary: In hindsight, he realised he'd been insensitive.


A/N: Inspired by a comment Carla made in Friday's episode (Feb 24th). Something about Peter's dismissal of it just didn't sit right with me, so here's my attempt to make it better ;)

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**Ragdoll**

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Peter couldn't sleep. He was wondering if he'd been too hard on the woman curled against his side as though he were her only protection from the entire world. He'd been so desperate to get to the bottom of what had happened with Simon that in the process he'd neglected to see her reaching out to him.

He kept replaying it all in his head, over and over. She'd been close to tears when she got home, but instead of offering a shoulder to cry on he'd shot straight in with his questions. She'd sat there, feeling like she had to defend herself to him when he was the _one_ person she shouldn't have to feel like that about; the _one_ person she shouldn't have to worry doubted her intentions.

He of all people should have been able to see she was barely holding it together.

He knew she'd never intentionally hurt or upset Simon. He understood if she'd had a drink, and he never wanted her to feel judged when it was a subject he had such personal experience with. He wanted her to know it was okay to tell him, but she was emotional and vulnerable and she'd let _that_ comment slip out, like a dirty confession.

_I've been treated like a ragdoll all my life._

And now… now it wouldn't leave him alone.

Words and images were tormenting him. A _toy_. A _plaything_. How could something so seemingly innocent, carry such sinister secrets beneath its stitching? The comparison held a _frightening_, underlying darkness that suggested feelings of _lifelessness_ and _helplessness_.

Mistreated.

Worn down.

Neglected.

_Abandoned_.

The oldest toy in the toy box, discarded and pushed to one side in favour of something more shiny and new. Something that hadn't yet been destroyed, or broken.

She'd looked so tortured when those words left her lips, and he realised sadly that there was so much he didn't know about her past. Something had escaped from her self-enforced prison of memories, something _personal_ and _unguarded_, and what had he done? He'd moved passed it. Disregarded it like it didn't matter.

But it _did_ matter. It mattered a _lot_, and in hindsight he realised he'd been insensitive. She'd opened up to him, probably without intending to but caught up in her emotions from what had obviously been a difficult day. It could have been an opportunity for them to talk, for him to offer some comfort; but he'd missed it, and now he was scared he may not get that opportunity again.

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling and hating to think how _she_ might have been mistreated before now.

Growing up… a clearly less than functional family surrounding her.

Past friendships.

Past relationships.

Her relationship with alcohol - that he was certain had gone on longer then she cared to admit.

An exterior like hers didn't come from nowhere; that was years upon years of torment, both self-inflicted and otherwise. He'd thought Frank must be the worst, but maybe he didn't know the half of it? They'd barely scratched the surface when it came to talking about the past, but sometimes she let things slip to him, or she'd make an inappropriate joke and _it_ would be there. Such _sadness_ in her eyes, and he longed to stick a band-aid on every single bad memory she had.

"Can't you sleep?"

Her timid question surprised him.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No." she reassured him. "You know what my sleeping's like. Short bursts."

He pulled her closer and she obliged, entwining herself with him and letting out a contented sigh when he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Tell me about your childhood?"

She tensed up. She was still hazy from sleep, and his question seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Not much to tell."

"You said you'd been treated like a ragdoll your whole life … that doesn't come from nowhere, Carla." He gently probed.

Now she remembered.

"Well, we weren't talking about _my_ life, were we. I shouldn't have said it."

He almost wished she sounded bitter, or angry, but her response only carried a tone of resignation that tugged at his heart painfully.

"No- I shouldn't have ignored it. There's so much about your past I don't know, and I _want_ to. I want to know _everything_." When she stayed silent he moved one hand to stroke through her hair, desperate to ease the tension in her entire frame. "You can tell me anything, you know that right?" he tried to encourage.

She considered his offer, but she didn't like talking about her past at the best of times, let alone now, when they had so much else to cope with.

Work…

Frank…

Simon…

Most of the street was against them...

No. She couldn't talk about it _now_.

Whoever said talking helped didn't consider how much it hurt sometimes, raking through it all when you couldn't change the past. Sometimes it was just too hard, it made you feel even worse and what should be healing only caused more damage.

She let her eyes drift shut as his fingers moved through her hair, enjoying the tender caress; _clinging_ onto it as she silently berated herself. She shouldn't have said it, and nobody could berate her as harshly as she did herself for letting it escape. She'd been emotional and blurted it out, feeling like she had to make him understand _something_… but she'd have to be more careful not to let her mouth run away with itself.

At least he was trying. At least he _had_ acknowledged it.

"I know." She said quietly.

"I mean it," he coaxed.

"I know I'm just… tired, Peter."

"Okay," he backed off, feeling her finally relax again. He wouldn't forget what she'd said, but he had to accept that her prison had been resealed, and reinforced. Those walls surrounding her past were well and truly back in place.

For now.

.

.

.


End file.
